Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  How does one answer that sort of question? As I wasn’t sure, I opted for the truth.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh, help,’ Marcia said softly.

  ‘Marcia,’ I pressed on, ‘I’ve had another call in response to my ad and I’m pretty sure it’s a cult member. I’ve arranged to meet her next Wednesday at Surfers Paradise.’ Keeping my tone upbeat, I outlined the content of the discussion I’d had with Cinnamon Toast.

  ‘Are you going to meet with her or just watch and see where she goes?’ Marcia asked, her voice stronger.

  ‘I’m not sure. We can discuss it if you come down to Byron tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘What’s happening tomorrow?’

  I explained to Marcia about Dave Fanshaw, his son Ben, and the dinner invitation to Dave and Daisy’s home. We agreed that it would be beneficial to talk to Ben about his experience with a cult, and Marcia said it would also be good for her to get out and mix with normal people.

  ‘If you like, you can stay the night at my place and we’ll both drive back up to the Gold Coast on Sunday,’ I told her.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Marcia said.

  ‘Yes, there’s plenty of room. Why don’t you come tomorrow afternoon, bring your swimmers and we’ll have a swim before going to the Fanshaws’? I can also assault your taste buds with one of my tea blends.’

  ‘It sounds good,’ Marcia said, her voice brighter. ‘Scout, if you give me Daisy’s number, I’ll call and accept the invitation.’

  For a second I was non-plussed. And, truthfully, a little relieved by this small display of self-reliance.

  ‘Are you getting your confidence back?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, thanks to you,’ Marcia assured me. ‘I was completely burnt out. Now I know I can do this. I can get Tildy back.’

  She took down Daisy’s number and we rang off. The phone immediately rang again. It was Bruce calling from the rear lane where he was sitting in my hire car. I went out to the back verandah, unlocked the gate and skipped down the wooden steps. It wasn’t a Toyota Corolla—it was a gleaming black Lexus.

  ‘Ta dah dah dah!’ Bruce said. He was standing beside the car with his arms out, as if I’d won a prize.

  Bruce is a refugee from Cambodia. He and his brother came to Australia in a leaky boat about thirty years ago. Both were granted asylum and they worked like crazy cleaning hospitals, delivering mail and learning English. They bought a small car-hire firm and with dogged determination and good business practice turned it into a large car-hire firm. Both men abandoned their real names, opting for something more Australian. One chose Bruce, the other, Steve; goodness knows where the Denton came from.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘these new Corollas are really something.’

  Bruce grinned happily at me. ‘You need special car after what happen, Scout. I charge you best price. What your insurance pay?’

  ‘Fifty bucks a day.’

  ‘Work for me,’ Bruce said.

  ‘Thanks, Bruce,’ I said. ‘This is a real treat. I’m almost glad my car was stolen.’

  Bruce beamed with satisfaction.

  Miles appeared at the back door of his restaurant, lit a cigarette and looked up and down the lane. Mrs Delgado was walking towards us, pulling her tartan trolley. As she ambled past, Miles discreetly leaned into his kitchen and extracted a takeaway container of food. Then he went over to Mrs Delgado and placed the container in her trolley. The transaction completed, she continued on her way without a word.

  I looked questioningly at Miles and he winked at me and turned his attention to the Lexus.

  ‘Hey, Bruce, that’s a beauty. You’d better park it here under the verandah in Mario’s spot. There’s easily room for a car and his motorbike, and it’ll hide the bike a bit.’

  Mario is Fandango’s pastry chef. He would prefer to keep his bike in the kitchen, in full view at all times, so I didn’t think he would object to the Lexus providing camouflage for a few days.

  Once I’d filled in the paperwork and thanked Bruce again, I sat in the car and admired the interior. It was swish and it smelled new. Exactly, in fact, the type of car a wealthy woman who had recently moved up to the Gold Coast might drive. A woman who had recently divorced, bought a house and was seeking new friends.

  And cosmic enlightenment.

  Chapter 20

  On Saturday morning I woke up with deep chenille marks on one side of my face. It had been close to midnight when I’d crawled upstairs from my stint in Fandango’s, and I’d fallen into a heavenly, unmoving sleep, hence the marks.

  Just as I was pulling on sneakers to go for a morning walk, the phone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ I answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ a voice whispered. Instantly I knew it was Needles, a fellow GKI member, and I assumed she was calling from the bakery on the Gold Coast where she works. ‘I’m ringing to let you know that I saw one of the orange wigs in Byron Bay yesterday. It was on a hat stand in a chemist shop.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ I told her. ‘I haven’t seen one in over a year.’

  The wigs had been one of GKI’s major missions, one we kidded ourselves was underpinned by an ambition to further the status of women in government. The 2010 federal election, and the trademark classic hairstyle of the leader of the Labor Party, had proved the perfect vehicle for our purposes. We’d made the wigs by cutting equal lengths of thick orange wool and sticking them onto two-sided tape on rubber swim caps, and then trimming the ends into a classic bob—we’d taken turns wearing the swim caps as it made the job easier. In all, we’d made forty wigs and placed them, on election night, on every conceivable post and bollard in town.

  Our stunt attracted a lot of media coverage and for some time afterwards the wigs had been displayed in various shops, restaurants and even in a hairdressers.

  ‘I didn’t have my phone or camera with me,’ Needles whispered. ‘Can you take a pic today, before it disappears?’ She told me the location and then asked, ‘How many coloured rectangles have we knitted for the next mission?’

  ‘Twelve. More than enough for the target,’ I assured her.

  ‘Is Bodkin okay with this one?’

  ‘He says so.’

  ‘See you Tuesday,’ Needles murmured, and rang off.

  Until two years ago, Needles was GKI’s official secretary, but she relinquished the post after her daughter, who already had three children under five, gave birth to twins. Needles figured that her fulltime job at the bakery plus the grandkids would reduce her reliability, and so the position was offered to me, and I gratefully accepted.

  Part of my duty list is to collect photographic evidence of our missions, so that we have a historical archive of our activities and their post-mission impact. Our charter forbids written records, and I don’t minute meetings, but I do keep newspaper cuttings where our missions have been mentioned.

  I also allocate everyone the correct colour wool for each activity, ensure all knitted objects are ready prior to a mission, organise meetings, make sure there’s enough vermouth for the gin slings and remind Old Blood and Guts to pick up the pizzas prior to the meetings. Hey, I can handle it.

  Outside, the sky over Byron Bay was a cloudless duck-egg blue, like a Tiffany wrapper. It had rained overnight and the whole town looked fresh and clean.

  An involuntary smile spread across my face when I saw the orange wig taking pride of place on top of a hat stand just inside the chemist’s door. Pretending to admire the hats, I readied my camera and took a couple of close-up shots.

  ‘Can I help you?’ a young woman asked me, and I wondered for the umpteenth time if this rapid retail response in chemist shops is not to help you, but to stop you helping yourself.

  ‘I’m just admiring your lovely hats. My daughter might like this one,’ I said, pointing to a monstrous yellow millinery disaster. ‘I’ll send her the photo and if she likes it I’ll come back.’

  The bemused assistant watched me as I strolled nonchalantly out of the shop. I waited a c
ouple of minutes and took a few shots of the hat stand from the footpath, and then walked further away and took one of the shop. The name’s Blonde, Scout Blonde.

  Putting my camera away, I headed towards the beach.

  I was daydreaming and searching for cat’s-eye shells in the sand when I sensed a jogger pull up beside me.

  ‘Hello, Scout,’ Rafe said. ‘Have you recovered from your stoush with Wenborne yet?’ He was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, and not at all out of breath.

  Rafe was wearing black Billabong surf shorts and nothing else. His body was tanned and toned, his black curly hair wet from the ocean, and in the sunlight his eyes were the deep blue of lapis lazuli. Truly, a woman could drown in those eyes. I was keenly aware that I hadn’t showered and was wearing daggy old khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with a large stain on the front.

  I smiled. I blushed. I felt seventeen.

  ‘Hello, Rafe,’ I managed. ‘I believe you had a little fun at my expense yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, it worked out well, too. Wenborne was beyond angry,’ Rafe said gleefully. ‘There wasn’t any risk, I knew you were completely innocent.’

  Feigning annoyance, I walked on, and was pleasantly surprised when Rafe fell in stride beside me.

  ‘How did you know I was innocent?’ I asked rather frostily.

  ‘Oh, come on, Scout, the whole station knew you had nothing to do with the dope found in your car. Nothing any of us said would have stopped Wenborne—she’s a one-woman crusade and a total pain in the arse.’

  ‘Mm. How did you know I’d gone out of town on Thursday afternoon?’

  ‘I saw you drive over the railway crossing in Miles’s car.’

  ‘Heaven help me if I ever do decide to commit a crime in this town,’ I said, dropping the attitude and laughing.

  Rafe, looking relieved, pointed towards the café nestled amongst the trees further along the beach and asked, ‘Can I make amends and buy you a coffee?’

  My automatic response was to say no as I hadn’t planned on being out too long. Something, however, made me hesitate. The lapis lazuli eyes, perhaps?

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  What the hell?

  At the café, Rafe washed sand off his feet and I brushed sand off my shoes, trying to pretend that I wasn’t watching the way his muscles rippled. We chose a table with a view of the ocean and ordered two flat whites and a plate of fruit to share. Rafe asked Miranda, one of the staff, if there was an old T-shirt he could wear.

  We made small talk about the weather and the beach until our order arrived. Rafe didn’t appear to have any tattoos, at least none that I could see, and I hoped there wasn’t one hidden out of sight. Looking around, we appeared to be the only two adults in the café without one.

  ‘Will this do? It’s clean,’ Miranda said, handing Rafe a grey T-shirt.

  ‘Thanks, kiddo,’ he said, pulling it on over his head. And, wouldn’t you know it, the grey made his eyes appear bluer.

  ‘You’re looking well,’ Rafe remarked, biting into a slice of watermelon.

  ‘I am well,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Especially for someone who was eaten alive the other night.’

  Frowning, I had to think for a second. Then I remembered Angus jumping into the car when I’d been on the phone to Rafe.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that. Angus is my sister Harper’s dog. He’s an out-of-control labradoodle. That’s where I’d gone on Thursday, up to Robina to see Harper.’

  ‘I’ve never asked before, but is Scout your real name?’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I said, already knowing what he would ask next.

  ‘And your sister’s called Harper?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Isn’t that something to do with To Kill A Mockingbird?’

  I nodded. ‘Mum was reading it when Harper was born. No surprises when I turned up two years later and was named Scout. Really, it could have been a lot worse—I could be a boy named Atticus.’

  ‘Or Dill,’ Rafe added.

  I laughed, surprised that he knew the name of the little boy who holidayed near the fictional Finches.

  Rafe must have read my expression. ‘We did the book at school,’ he explained.

  ‘Ah.’ I bit into a large strawberry and the juice ran down my chin.

  ‘Did you know that Dill’s character is supposedly based on Truman Capote?’ I told Rafe, wiping my chin. ‘He and Harper Lee were neighbours and played together as children.’

  Rafe shook his head and smiled at me and I tried not to melt into the chair. Other women in the café sent frequent discreet glances Rafe’s way and I couldn’t blame them. One woman in particular, a blonde and bosomy Pamela Anderson type, was making a real meal of the view at our table—discreet wasn’t in her repertoire. Rafe didn’t appear to notice, but then he was probably used to it. I had a brief image of sticking a fork in her blow-up boobs and watching her fly around the café like a punctured balloon.

  We discussed books and talked about Dave and his endeavours to write the great Australian novel. Then we got onto films and art exhibitions and overseas travel—in fact, we seemed to be covering every subject except Toby, which had been the main topic of conversation in our previous, albeit brief, discussions. I glanced at my watch. It was hard to believe we’d talked away an hour.

  ‘Did you have any luck with those cults you were asking me about?’ Rafe said, breaking a large piece of watermelon in half and offering me some.

  ‘Sort of,’ I told him, taking the fruit. ‘I’ve been commissioned to write about one of them.’ Briefly, I gave Rafe an outline of what I knew so far, omitting any reference to Marcia, or our intention to rescue her daughter from the cult. The police were the last people who needed to know my plans. Not that I had any yet.

  ‘Well, take care,’ he warned. ‘Apparently it only takes three to four days to brainwash a normal healthy person.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ My disbelief was apparent.

  ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Amos Priest?’

  ‘Wasn’t he the leader of a cult near Newcastle?’

  Rafe nodded. ‘The Prophets of the Good Book. It was a breakaway Catholic cult. Amos Priest claimed that he was in contact with the Virgin Mary and she or the Pope, I can’t remember which, said it was okay for him to sleep with underage girls, even though he was married. I was stationed near Newcastle when there was an investigation into Priest’s activities. Some of us had training on cults from a university boffin. I guess old Amos is still locked up.’

  ‘If you know a bit about cults, I’d love to take notes,’ I said. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No, have you got something to write on?’

  I shook my head and Rafe stood up and went to the kitchen. Shortly, he returned with some paper and a pen and handed them to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘I remember being shocked,’ Rafe began, ‘that it was so easy to break down someone’s defences in a short period of time. Sophisticated mind control will work on even the most intelligent person, particularly if you change their environment and introduce sensory deprivation. Simple stuff, like removing clocks and watches, can destroy a person’s ability to function normally in relation to the passage of time. And sleep deprivation disorientates you.’

  Rafe took a sip of coffee and then leaned back and put his hands behind his head, relaxing into his tutorial role. ‘Cults keep your mind and body busy with chants and constant diatribes denouncing your values. Everything has subliminal messages. They use key words and keep repeating them until you’re so confused that you begin a process of blind acceptance of the doctrine. Not only do they isolate you from the outside world, but they don’t allow you any privacy, or time for private reflection to contemplate what you’ve been told.’

  An ibis landed on the edge of our table, his long beak searching for food scraps. Rafe shooed the bird away.

  ‘Surely if you’re smart your mind can override psychological coercion,’ I reasoned.


  Rafe shook his head. ‘You’re making the same mistake that everyone makes. Cult leaders, and don’t forget these people are self-appointed and not accountable to anyone, are marketing experts. They aren’t working on your intellect. It’s your emotions they’re targeting, and they make you feel guilty by pointing out your faults. Sometimes they reward you for a certain action, but the next time they punish you for the same thing. You never know what the rules are and you become confused. They make you dress the same as the other members, taking away your individuality. And they force you to confess personal failings, which makes you doubt that you’re a good person.’

  I was writing furiously. ‘I’d no idea you knew so much about this.’

  ‘It’s interesting, I guess that’s why I remember it.’

  ‘If cults are so awful,’ I asked him, ‘how come anyone joins?’

  ‘Ah,’ Rafe said, ‘at the same time as they’re doing all the psychological stuff, they’re also doing what’s called “love bombing”. Cult members hug and kiss new recruits, flattering and stroking them to make them feel wanted and valued. It has the effect of making the new recruit feel as though they belong, and the last thing the new recruit will want to do is to upset these very affectionate people who are being so very, very nice to them.’

  I experienced a slight mind-blip imagining myself being love bombed by Rafe. With difficulty, I pulled myself back to reality.

  ‘You know, love bombing is nothing like yarn bombing,’ Rafe said dismissively, and when I looked up at him his eyes were smiling with mischief. Oh, help! Why on earth had he mentioned yarn bombing? Did Rafe know about my nighttime activities? He had asked me, hadn’t he, when my car was stolen, if there was any wool in my car?

  Looking down to hide my blush, I pretended to read through my notes, all the while trying to act casual and wrestle myself back on track.

  Eventually, adopting a slightly argumentative tone, and what I hoped was a seriously professional voice, I said, ‘Indoctrination has got to take more than three days.’

  Rafe, still smiling broadly, winked at me and then took another sip of his coffee. Okay, so I might have to work a bit on the serious professional voice.